


You Are Enough

by HeraldAros



Series: Oneshots, AUs, and Other Assorted Fics [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fix-It, On Hiatus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 21:35:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17030439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeraldAros/pseuds/HeraldAros
Summary: What if Hawke married Saemus early in Act 2?Or, more precisely: what if the Viscount betrothed his problematic son to his most promising noble, thereby averting a succession crisis?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I'm archiving this straight off of tumblr with minimal edits; the handful of chapters I'm about to post are all I wrote and I'm not interested in continuing it until my other fic series is farther along. With that said, I like this idea and very likely will be coming back to it.

Lorraine Hawke washed up nicely: without blood anywhere on her, with her hair neatened, and with a rich, golden tunic and dark trousers, she looked more like a noble and less like a mercenary.

Saemus hadn’t really expected that. On the Wounded Coast, she had looked so—fierce, he supposed was the politic word, but at the time, he’d thought  _savage_. It wasn’t because of the blood splattered on her face or her armor, it wasn’t the rough-hewn, vicious polearm that she wielded, it wasn’t even her strong jaw or her short-cropped, frizzy hair… It was the sense she had flayed him open when she looked at him, so penetrating was her gaze. And then she turned that focus on the Winters, and he forgave himself for his disbelief when she and her friends killed them all. He’d been in shock. Now, he knew better; now, he knew that impression of being flayed open was entirely correct. He knew what she was capable of. He wouldn’t underestimate her again.

His father had, of course, taken him aside and given him a veritable list of things not to say, disregarding that Saemus already knew it all: he wasn’t to bring up her obvious Antivan heritage, nor the fact of her brother the templar, nor even her upbringing in Ferelden. He was to tolerate her dog and her friends, her lack of refinement and her lack of civilized beauty. He wouldn’t question where she went out at night, or in the day; wouldn’t ask how she’d gotten her scars, nor any wounds she might acquire in the future. He would cast no aspersions on her relationships with her companions, no matter that half of them were male and she seemed inclined to touch every single one of them—not in a lewd manner, but certainly  _intimately_.

He would never, ever remind anyone that she was a mage.

In return, she would keep him alive, and he would be allowed to practice whatever religion he wished, so long as he did it  _quietly_.

“Mother’s all for it, which you wouldn’t expect given, well,  _Father_ , and the whole ‘running away from her arranged marriage with de Launcet,’ but I suppose that’s because you’re not…de Launcet,” Lorraine said, sprawled all over a chair as if it was a couch. She had her legs over one arm of the chair, and most of her weight seemed to be resting on her elbow propped on the other. It must be doing horrid things to her posture, but at the same time, the irreverent position put Saemus at ease. “I haven’t heard from Carver yet, but I expect that’s only a matter of time. He’ll be laughing his head off at the thought of me getting married.” She smirked, and Saemus found himself smiling back automatically. “Only until I invite him, though. I wonder if he’ll be allowed to come? Probably in that awful armor. Hm.”

Behind them, in the main room of the Amell estate, the fire crackled; Saemus could hear Lorraine’s great big dog open its great big maw in a yawn. When she’d rescued him, he’d seen that dog rip a man’s arm off at the shoulder. They were not alone in the room, either, as that would be improper. The door to the main room was open, and Lady Amell was going through a stack of letters— “mine, for the most part,” Lorraine had admitted, “you wouldn’t believe the number of people who write to me” —but even better, Sebastian Vael was watching the meeting from a chair on the far side of the room. Every time Saemus glanced at him, there was a benevolent smile on his face, but that meant nothing; Saemus was very aware of the fact that Sebastian was just as if not more eligible for Lorraine’s hand than Saemus, and part of him resented the heir to Starkhaven for not, well, proclaiming his eligibility.

In fact, Saemus found himself resenting a number of Lorraine’s companions. Since the betrothal talks had begun, he’d seen each of them—perhaps “been accosted by” was the better phrase.

Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen had been the first, and her lecture the longest. Her husband had actually come in to inform her that it was time for dinner, and she’d wrapped up then. Saemus walked away, having missed lunch as well, far more knowledgeable about Lorraine’s past—and about how much Lorraine’s friends cared about her. Aveline’s lecture hadn’t included any tawdry line like “they’ll never find the body,” but only because she hadn’t needed to include those after giving Saemus an idea of the usual sorts of people Lorraine and her friends…dealt with.

Next was Varric Tethras, who just happened to have business with the Seneschal. He’d just patted Saemus on the arm and warned him that “crazy follows Hawke like shadows follow the sun. She can’t really help it. You’ll see.”

The first time Saemus had met with Lorraine in her estate, Anders had contrived to be “visiting” —and he’d warned Saemus, too, although in his case, it was the “they’ll never find the body” warning. Then Anders had left, and Fenris had shown up as Saemus was preparing to leave. The elf had said nothing, but his glare and the slight glowing of his tattoos had been more unnerving than Anders’s warning.

Merrill and Isabela turned up almost a week later, in his private bedchambers at an altogether startlingly early hour in the morning. Isabela had looked more serious than he’d pictured her from the stories he’d heard as she told him that her husband had been assassinated and she kept in touch with the assassin. Merrill had also seemed unusually serious; she sat on his bed, looked directly into his eyes, and told him that very many people would be terribly upset if he upset Lorraine.

“I’m well aware,” he informed her right back, trying not to be too put out at a young woman sitting on his bed while he was still in small-clothes. Trying not to be too put out by the number of knives he could see on Isabela, even from his peripheral. “And I’m sure _you_  know that it’s pointless to tell me. I’m not  _capable_ of hurting Lorraine.”

Merrill had frowned at that, but it was Isabela who said, “You’d be surprised, what a husband can do to a wife.”

They’d taken their leave of him without further dramatics, but by that point, he was eager and a little terrified to see what Sebastian would come up with. Not to mention who else might come out of the woodwork—so far, outside of Lorraine’s immediate social circle, there had been a few templars and merchants who had offered him rather personal congratulations or looked at him as if they were asking themselves why she had chosen  _him_. She hadn’t. There had been no choosing, of any sort, except his father choosing her and her mother choosing not to protest, but Saemus was hardly going to tell anyone that.

Even the Arishok had requested his presence, shock and honor that that was. The leader of the Qunari had questioned him as to the nature of such an arranged marriage, and Saemus had also told him about some of the politics that made it necessary in his father’s eyes. The Arishok had offered neither guidance nor orders, but he had looked long and hard at Saemus before dismissing him.

So, it was a bit of a disappointment when all Sebastian had said was that it was “as the Maker wills.” Overall, Saemus got the impression that Sebastian thought Lorraine was converting him—not entirely incorrectly, that was certainly part of the Viscount’s plan with this whole marriage business—and had therefore swallowed any and all protestations, had even gone so far as to offer to chaperone the two of them.

Lady Amell was also, ostensibly, chaperoning, but she had insisted it wasn’t necessary to remain in the room with them. Sebastian hadn’t argued with her, but he also hadn’t agreed. Since they settled here, his sharp eyes have been fixed not on Saemus but on Lorraine.

For his part, Saemus was struck with a sudden, overwhelming pity for Lorraine. All his life, he’d never had friends, and it seemed as if she’d been in a comparable situation, albeit with siblings to lessen the blow. Now, in Kirkwall, she was admired, she had companions who not only trusted but also loved her, and instead of being able to choose one of them, she’d been maneuvered into a marriage of alliance with him. Any of them would have accepted her, he was sure—except Aveline, who was like a much-needed older sister, and besotted with her husband besides—and instead, she was to marry Saemus.

Perhaps he would come to love her, he thought, as she outlined a traditional Chasind wedding outfit. Perhaps she would come to tolerate him—he doubted she could love him, not even as she loved her friends; he had nothing to offer her, no skill to battle at her side, no knowledge that would make him indispensable. She would probably never be able to respect him, but she might come to like him. She seemed to have a good relationship with the Arishok; she held no visceral hatred for that religion.

“…And also, we’ll need to tattoo your dick, of course, as well as pierce it—” 

“ _What_?!” He gaped at her, only barely stopping his hands from covering his groin defensively. "We’ll do no such thing!”

Lorraine laughed at him. “Just making sure you’re paying attention.” Then, when he started to relax, she added, “The Avvars used paint, so you could wash it off.”

Saemus narrowed his eyes at her. “Please remind me how Chasind you are, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.” He wasn’t sure anyone had ever actually told him; he wasn’t sure anyone else actually  _knew_.

She was laughing again. “It’s possible that my father might have been Chasind—as possible as him being Rivaini, or Antivan. We’ve no idea where he was from, in fact, but he knew quite a bit more about other cultures than you’d expect from someone who hadn’t lived with them. Don’t worry, I’m just teasing.”

“I should hope so. I don’t think Kirkwall is ready for Chasind wedding customs.”

Again, she laughed. “Oh, you’re right. Too bad the Qunari don’t have any;  _that_ would sure give the people a scare! I suppose we’ll have to settle for the Chantry ceremony, and be done with it, more’s the pity.”

He frowned at her. “I thought you liked the Chantry.”

She didn’t look at Sebastian. “I don’t have an opinion one way or the other on Chantry marriage practices, besides that they’re long and stuffy. Have you considered eloping? We could round up several witnesses—Isabela could find us a ship—and Amaranthine’s right across the sea. We’d be back in a month, and then I wouldn’t have to memorize a dozen nobles’ names.”

Sebastian looked unhappy with that idea, but said nothing, not even when Lorraine blatantly looked his way.

“It’s a family tradition of yours, isn’t it?”

“What, eloping?” Lorraine laughed, loudest of all, and got up to stand in the doorway and say, “Mother, Saemus has just pointed out that it’s a family tradition to respond to betrothal with elopement.”

Lady Amell’s reply was a distinct, “You will not rob me of planning my only daughter’s wedding,” and all the humor drained out of Lorraine.

She said, “Of course not, Mother,” and when she sat back down in the chair, it was properly, with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t look up at Saemus or Sebastian, but rather, studied the backs of her gloves.

It took Saemus several minutes to remember that Lorraine’s little sister had died during the Blight.

“I’m sure it won’t be too horrible,” he said, in lieu of offering condolences for the death of a girl he’d never known. “Besides, we won’t have to plan a bit of it, and I can remind you of the names of the nobles.”

Lorraine looked so grateful that he couldn’t find it in him to resent her for the wedding or the marriage or any of it. Perhaps this might even be a good thing: of all the people in Kirkwall, she was the only one the Arishok respected even a little. With her married to him, she’d have the power to make peace with the Qunari, to change people’s minds about them where Saemus had bitterly failed.

Perhaps he should start looking forward, not just to their wedding, but to a new, better future for Kirkwall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation with Varric.

It took a while for Varric to warm to the idea of Saemus Dumar as Hawke’s husband.

As a literary trope, “arranged marriage” was tired. Overused. More cliché than skeletons lurching towards the hero under the light of a full moon, more cliché even than Hawke’s mabari. There were few good reasons for it and a lot of bad ones—to incite unnatural conflict when a writer plateaued, to force two people who barely knew one another (or who disliked one another) into close contact and intimacy, et cetera. It was lazy and, if Varric was feeling lazy, he preferred a trope like “and then a bunch of assassins dropped down from the rooftops.”

Assassins didn’t make Hawke pull out the crazy eyes.

She spent a week hiding in his room, sleeping on his bed, and drinking his overpriced wine. Varric was fairly sure that, after that, she slept with Isabela, or at least let Isabela ply her with overpriced foreign rum and stroke her hair. He fielded questions from Merrill and Fenris—Merrill was confused over the whole concept, and Fenris was confused as to why Hawke was going along with it. Anders threw himself into his Mage Underground, sneaking out half a dozen mages while the templars were busy interrogating Carver about Hawke.

(If Meredith thought she could stop the marriage, things would get interesting. Hawke responded beautifully to adversity.)

Eventually, she warmed to the idea—or, at least, she stopped looking thoughtfully at maps and ships and horses. Varric didn’t know what had changed, but he was glad for it. Avoiding the marriage would be messy, since the Viscount was so in favor of it, and Hawke was well-known (and popular) enough that the templars would catch onto her magic sooner rather than later. Cementing her position as the Viscount’s daughter-in-law would give her more protection than her nobility and her gold got her.

Varric went by the Viscount’s Keep to have another look at the boy. Saemus had a bit of the crazy eyes going on, too, so Varric just gave him a friendly warning about the sort of life Hawke led and a pat on the arm. He wasn’t a bad kid, Varric supposed. Good-looking enough, although a bit dimmer than he’d thought Hawke would go for. Politically well-connected in that marrying him got Hawke into the Viscount’s Keep, but Saemus himself was largely  _persona non grata_  to the nobles for championing the Qunari. (The Viscount himself was not much better, though; the nobles had always been more than a little lukewarm towards him, and recent tension being what it was… Well, Varric wasn’t saying that the Viscount had arranged for his son to marry the most popular noble in Kirkwall just because having Hawke for a daughter-in-law would be good for his reputation. Varric knew when to keep his mouth shut.)

It was hardly the first time a more competent, popular noble married the less competent heir of the state. In fact, Ferelden had done that just a few years back, and Queen Anora was expecting her first child. It made for a good story, especially when the man was the royal heir—a bit of subversion made for a better tale. Audiences love novelty.

Varric kept an ear to the ground, just in case. He didn’t have many contacts in the Gallows, but what he had, he put to work. He attended a few meetings of the Merchants’ Guild and made a point of wandering around all parts of the city. The news trickled down, partly by design and partly because most people were terrible gossips, and most of Kirkwall’s people were in favor of the match. There was still some residual resentment about the Ferelden refugees, but the public in general considered Hawke a cut above the rest because she had worked and because of her involvement with the Bone Pit. Most Kirkwallers were in favor of anything that got Fereldans out of the city for most of the day, and by employing them, Hawke not only kept them out of sight but also out of trouble. Not to mention, coin Fereldans earned was coin they spent.

Still others remembered the Amell family, and they reminded their fellows that an Amell had almost been Viscount. With a brother in the templars, few suspected Hawke of being an apostate, and even those who spoke in hushed whispers were sure to add that Hawke wasn’t a  _bad_  apostate.

There were some who criticized her—a certain magistrate, for example, and those with strong ties to the templars. Not just the Chantry; Sebastian was known to be in support of the marriage, as was Grand Cleric Elthina, and their word counted for a lot among religious folks. But people who really liked the templars didn’t really like Hawke, and they were vocal about it.

It was about what Varric had expected, really.

“You should talk to Athenril,” he advised Hawke, when the ring was on her finger and a date had been set. “Wedding’s a good time for an assassination.”

She frowned and nodded. “I was afraid of that. Dumar and Mother were adamant that eloping would send the wrong message, but making an event of it makes us targets.” She traced a deep scratch in Varric’s table, a battle scar from a heated game of Diamondback. “The Arishok offered a number of his warriors as bodyguards. I’m thinking about taking him up on it.”

Varric whistled. That was  _ballsy_ , having Qunari bodyguards for a Chantry wedding. “Might need bodyguards for the bodyguards, then.”

“I might need a standing army. My cousins have decided to come, as well.”

“Your cousins?” He frowned. “I didn’t know you had cousins.”

She laughed without humor. “I don’t blame you. I didn’t know about the one—she’s Gamlen’s daughter, and Maker knows how  _that_  happened.”

“And the other?”

“Oh. Well.” She dug into the scratch into the table with her thumb nail. “I’m surprised you hadn’t put it together, but it’s not like we made much of it.” Sighing, she met Varric’s eyes. “I know you’ve heard of her. Sophia Amell, Arl of Amaranthine.”

“The Hero of Ferelden.”

“Yes.”

He was surprised he hadn’t put it together, too. The name was right there. He chalked it up to not thinking much about the Wardens, or the Blight, beyond being glad that it was over and had delivered them Anders, with his healing and his Warden maps. “Isn’t she busy with Warden business?”

“Apparently not.” Hawke leaned back, looking away now. Probably thinking about her cousin, and the Wardens, and what it all meant. “Anders wasn’t going to come anyway, but he might need to leave the city for a while. Not to mention the trouble she’ll cause with the templars.”

Wincing, Varric decided that he could afford to hire a few more mercenaries. Hawke had done a few jobs for Meeran, always on the side and always successfully. He might be able to wrangle a discount out of it. “Think they’ll storm the Chantry and arrest her?”

“I think the Qunari won’t let them. I’d rather not have a battle on my wedding day, though. I wish I could negotiate with Meredith, but walking into the Gallows is as good as locking myself up.” She stood up, pushing her chair in noisily. “I’ve no illusions that she doesn’t know I’m a mage. Saemus knows. Sebastian, of course, knows. I’ll have to tell the Grand Cleric and hope for the best.”

“ _She_  could decide to arrest you,” Varric pointed out.

“I know. But she doesn’t have templars in the cathedral, and I’ll take Fenris and Aveline with me. If the worst comes, Sophia’s promised me haven in Amaranthine. Isabela has a ship ready.”

He hadn’t even considered the possibility of the templars knowing about Hawke’s magic—in part because, as far as his contacts could tell, they  _didn’t_ know. But there wasn’t a person in Kirkwall who didn’t know that Sophia Amell was a mage, and if the templars decided that it was their duty to lock her up, despite being a Warden and a foreign noble, not even being the Viscount’s daughter-in-law would save Hawke.

Especially not if they did it before she was married.

“Eloping’s looking better and better.”

She laughed. “I said the same. Don’t worry, I don’t plan on letting them cart me away.”

He nodded, worried despite her assurances, and she excused herself.

There was a month before the wedding. Varric had a lot of preparations to make.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aveline and Fenris

  
“You know,” Lorraine commented idly, hiding—Aveline suspected, but didn’t have any proof—in the Guard Captain’s office to avoid Seneschal Bran’s lists and lists of visiting dignitaries, “if you’d let my brother into the guard, he wouldn’t be a templar right now.”

Under other circumstances, Aveline would have replied at once. She paused, though; there was something off about the comment. Not the tone of it; Lorraine’s tone was casual, but Lorraine was almost a better liar than Varric. If she didn’t want to sound caustic, or accusatory, or betrayed, then she simply wouldn’t. There were only a handful of occasions where Aveline was certain Lorraine had been sincere, and one of those was the death of young Bethany Hawke.

Perhaps it was Lorraine’s expression, which was not blank, but—expectant. Waiting for Aveline’s response. Also, idle comment or no, their conversation had drifted into comfortable silence minutes ago, Aveline intent on patrol routes and Lorraine leaning against the wall, glancing over book titles.

“He’s not guard material, Hawke,” Aveline reminded her, as gently as she could. Carver had never seemed like a sore subject with his older sister, but… Well, it was no secret to Lorraine’s friends that she was a mage. That betrayal had three years of festering put into it.

“Hm,” was all Lorraine said. She left soon after, and from the sounds that echoed down the stairs, Seneschal Bran was on his way toward her hiding spot.

Aveline returned to her patrol routes with a sense of foreboding.

*

Fenris remembered rescuing Saemus Dumar mostly because the battle with the Winters had nearly cost him his arm. If not for Anders and Hawke…

Magic was so different, here in the south. Not better; if he felt generous, it was less bad. Blood magic was universally condemned, and mages were policed as they ought to be. Useful branches of magic, like crafting and healing, had developed far more than in the Empire. The only time he’d mentioned the differences, Anders had almost sighed dreamily at the prospect of Tevinter, while Merrill had shrugged and said, “Shemlen are shemlen,” as if there were no terrible elven mages. Hawke herself had kept quiet, and he’d thought it strange. Now, sitting in front of a dead fire, Danarius’s clutter and the debris of his own rampage through the place all around him, Fenris wondered if she’d been planning to take Kirkwall as her own even then.

He wondered, again, if he should inform someone (who?) about Hawke’s magic. It seemed unjust to her, but also unjust to the people who lived here, to not let them know that their future Viscount was a mage. To be sure, she was the most trustworthy mage he’d met, but that was in the vein of last winter being the coldest winter he’d experienced.

If she became…twisted, _maleficar_ , she would have a far greater potential for harm. If she went to the Circle, he would have betrayed his first supporter, his…friend? And for uncertain doubts.

He thought, also, of expressing his concerns to Sebastian, but the man didn’t know of Hawke’s magic, and anyway, was smitten with Hawke. He called her  _My Lady Lorraine_ , and held doors open for her. He’d offered to teach her how to shoot and looked thrilled when she’d agreed.

Less thrilled when she also agreed to learn how to concoct salves from Anders, and subsequently disappeared for several weeks. (Fenris suspected that she’d helped smuggle out mages, as well.)

No, he decided finally. Hawke had been nothing but trustworthy. Sympathetic to mages, yes; occasionally too softhearted, too forgiving, undoubtedly, but not…evil. Never that.

If she became maleficar, then he would simply kill her himself, as he would one day kill Danarius. He owed her that much. (He owed her too much, would never settle his debts no matter how often she smiled it off. She wanted his friendship in exchange, but she was a  _mage_ , and she  _helped_  mages. She would have to settle for his silence.)

Fenris rose, but only to find another bottle of wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I should note that this is a storyline where Hawke didn't romance anyone, but is rocking really high approval ratings with everyone for early-ish Act 2. (If you take that to mean 'all the love interests are Super Into Hawke, who has not returned anyone's affections but has not...discouraged any of said affections, either,' then you would be correct. I'm saying this so that everyone can chuckle at Fenris calling out Sebastian's crush.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver

At first, Carver thought it was a joke.

As if  _Lorraine_  would get  _married_. She’d hated all that sort of thing—oh, sure, she liked dresses well enough, but standing in a Chantry and reciting vows? And to  _Saemus Dumar_? Carver vaguely remembered him as a sniveling whining mess of a noble who’d gotten them in trouble with the Winters. Lorraine had taken care of it, as usual, and escorted the boy home, then given his father a bit of a talking-to.

Meanwhile, Isabela had stolen _a few_ things from the Viscount’s and Seneschal’s offices, and Carver had accidently broken a bit of molding off the wall. Good times.

Then Knight-Captain Cullen called him into the  _Knight-Commander’s_  office.

“Your sister has helped our Order in the past,” Cullen said. He was sitting behind a small, light brown desk without a scrap of parchment on it. He looked as out-of-place there as Carver felt, although not nearly as nervous. Well, and why should he be, the Knight-Commander wasn’t standing behind  _him_ , watching him with a glower and those piercing eyes that just dared him to try lying. “We’re, naturally, grateful for that. But we’ve had…disquieting reports on her, as well. What do you know of her sympathies toward the Qunari?”

Carver almost laughed, but he restrained himself. They might just be working up to the “is she a mage?” question. “She doesn’t want to piss them off. I haven’t spoken to her recently, but back then—three years ago, I mean—she didn't  _like_  them, she just didn’t like to make them angry.” Although she had told them that she’d killed the warriors who came for the Qunari mage… That was probably just her bragging, as usual.

Cullen looked surprised at the answer. “You don’t think she’s likely to convert, then?”

Just barely this time, Carver kept himself from laughing, or grinning, or smirking, or smiling. He made himself frown instead. “No, not at all. Not if the Arishok would make her his successor or promised her a thousand sovereigns.” He knew she’d had nightmares after seeing that Qunari mage—nightmares about her mouth all sewn shut, or about burning alive. He’d held her through some of them and listened to her sniffle and shudder through the rest.

He also carefully stayed away from the loaded concept of  _conversion_. It wasn’t that Lorraine didn’t believe in Andraste—she was no fool—but she didn’t precisely trust the Chantry, and she was suspicious of the Chant itself.

“And what of Saemus?” the Knight-Commander asked.

Carver jumped at the unexpected question. He turned to face her instead of cursing. “Saemus, Commander?”

“Will he influence her, or she him?”

“The latter,” said Carver with absolute conviction. “No one convinces Lorraine of anything she doesn’t already believe.”

“Not even your father?”

He stared. Beneath his armor, he could feel himself break out in a sweat, despite the cold. “I’m not sure what you’re asking, Commander.”

If eyes could dissect answers out of a person… Not even Cullen dared to breathe when she glowered like that. “Your father has a record here. Malcolm Hawke escaped some twenty years ago. What I am  _asking_ , Ser Carver, is what kind of influence he had on his daughter.”

Carver considered his options, and said, “Lorraine has…sympathies, but she understands the duty of the Chantry. She understands what we templars do.” He paused, and added, “Before we came to Kirkwall, we had another sister. Bethany, my twin. She was a mage. The Darkspawn killed her… So, yes, Lorraine has sympathies. But she doesn’t have to take care of Bethany anymore.”

He wasn’t sure it was good to reveal that one of them had been a mage, but hopefully they would think that Bethany had been the only one. How likely was it for a family to have two, anyway? From the way Cullen relaxed and the Knight-Commander went from glowering to merely stony, he supposed it had worked. They thought Lorraine’s interest in mages was a holdover from protecting a little sister who no longer needed protection, and (hopefully) wouldn’t look further into the matter.

“And despite this sister,” the Knight-Commander said, “you are one of us. Commendable.”

He shook his head. “Because of Bethany, really. I grew up with her.” She’d been so afraid of the Circle, of templars. He wasn’t good for much, but the least he could do was care for the mages. If he did well, he might one day be Knight-Commander himself, and then he could change things.

“Would Hawke consider joining us as well?” Cullen asked. When Carver looked at him blankly, he added, “It’s a moot point given her betrothal, but she  _did_  help us, and, as you say, growing up with a mage leads to certain perspective…”

“Lorraine doesn’t handle other people’s authority very well,” Carver said, trying to keep his horror at the idea out of his voice and expression. He thanked the Maker that she’d never considered infiltrating the templars herself. The Gallows would be empty in a week, and then the Divine would call an Enlightened March down on Kirkwall and they’d all be killed.

Cullen nodded, accepting that, and even the Knight-Commander looked amused. Carver supposed he’d failed at not looking or sounding horrified.

“There’s one other matter,” Cullen said, “and then we’ll let you go. Have you ever been in contact with your cousin?”

“I have a cousin?” It wasn’t impossible—Gamlen certainly liked whores well enough—but he’d never even considered the idea.

“I suppose that answers that.” Cullen and the Knight-Commander shared a look, and then Cullen dismissed Carver.

He got halfway down the hall before turning around and knocking on the door.

The Knight-Commander opened it and raised her eyebrows at him.

“Ser,” he said, saluting, “may I have leave to attend my sister’s wedding?”

“We’ve received no invitation,” she told him. He’d known they screened his mail—everyone’s, really—but no one ever said it that blatantly.

“May I have leave anyway?”

“And if we do not receive an invitation?”

He grinned. “Then, with permission, I’d go anyway. It’s what she’ll expect.”

She studied him for a long moment, before nodding. “You may have leave. Cullen will handle the paperwork. Be on your best behavior—you will represent our Order.”

“Ser!” This time, when he was dismissed, he hurried to the barracks and began composing a letter.

 _Lorraine_ —

_I have leave to go to your stupid wedding. Will be in armor, not whatever floofy noble getup you pick out. Are you actually going to wear a dress? I mean, one they’ll let you into the Chantry in. That’ll be a sight! Think the Marchers will let you bring Rascal? Maybe we could paint him. I told you about the Ash Warriors at Ostagar, right? All their dogs were painted. Maybe we could make Rascal match Fenris._

_The Knight-Commander and Cullen were asking about your “sympathies” and whether Father had any “influence” on you, so I told them about Bethany._

_Be careful. A lot of people will be waiting for you to screw up. Don’t know if you’ve had time to read history but ask Varric or Saemus about Threnhold. There are whole lessons here on him._

_-Carver_

_P.S. Do we have a cousin? And will they be at the wedding?_

He looked it over before pocketing it. He’d go down to the courtyard later and hand it to Solitivus. He was fairly sure that the herbalist was either one of Varric’s contacts or knew who they were—he’d see the letter got to Lorraine, in any case.

And, just to be safe, he wrote a perfectly innocuous letter to Mother, letting her know that he had leave and asking when the wedding would be. That one he’d give to the official postmaster, to be looked over and then sent on to Kirkwall proper.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophia Amell, and Alistair

When Alistair found her, Sophia was in her bedroom. There was an enchanter’s robe laid out on her bed, next to a deep blue gown. Another gown, this one golden-brown, draped over her desk. In the far corner of the room on an armor stand was a handsome set of armor, Warden blue and emblazoned with a rampant gryphon. A formal Warden outfit, with the same insignia embroidered on blue silk, hung over a full-length mirror next to the armor stand, directly opposite the door.

“I wish Leliana had never left,” Sophia said without turning. “She’d know which of these I should wear.”

“I’m sorry,” was all Alistair could offer her. He himself didn’t pick out what he wore to court; if it was important, Anora decided, and if it wasn’t important, he could wear armor. In Ferelden, he could get away with wearing armor an awful lot. “You’re not going to ask me, are you? I can’t—”

Sophia laughed. “No, don’t worry, I wouldn’t dare. I’ll just have to decide on my own.” She stood and walked over to the formal Warden outfit. It wasn’t a gown or a robe; there were breeches under the tunic, and a pair of unbloodied, unmuddied boots next to the mirror. “I’ll wear this.”

He tried not to be too obvious with his sigh of relief and failed. She turned to look at him, one eyebrow quirked up, half a smirk on her face. “Worried I’d go to Kirkwall in mage robes?”

“I suppose I should have known better. Even  _you_  aren’t that reckless.”

“I considered it. I doubt the Knight-Commander over there is willing to start a war with both Amaranthine  _and_  the Wardens.”

He grimaced. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve heard… _things_ …about her.”

Sophia nodded to her desk. “I’ve gotten reports, myself. Zevran  _and_  Loghain wrote, warning me to be careful.” Alistair made a face at the mention of Loghain, but she ignored him. “Irving wrote, as well. And my…cousin.”

“The one getting married?”

“Her mother.” Sophia gathered up the robe and gowns, depositing them in her wardrobe with almost as much care as she gave books. “I’ve been invited to stay at the Amell estate. Useful, since there’s no outpost there.”

Ah, Alistair recognized  _that_  look. “You’re not going to Kirkwall to  _recruit_ , are you?” He didn’t remember the name of the Warden-Commander in the Marches, or where he lived, but Alistair was quite sure no Warden-Commander liked another coming into their territory and recruiting.

“No. Not for the Wardens, anyway.”

That wasn’t comforting. “Who, then? Tell me now, so I can warn Her Majesty. Speaking of her, she’s warning you too. This isn’t a good idea, Sophia.”

Sophia laughed. “Of course it’s not. But it’s  _necessary_. And the Mages’ Collective has a few things they’d like me to do while I’m there—deliveries and pickups.”

“Of apostates?”

“Ingredients, books. I’ll be under too much scrutiny to help escapees.” Not that that would stop her, Alistair thought—but at least she was prepared for it. “Anyway, not having the Wardens checking up on me will let me get a better look at the conditions there. Did Anora say anything else?”

“Most of our refugees have come back, as far as we can tell,” Alistair told her, although she probably already knew. She’d probably been the one to tell Anora that, come to think of it. “The ones who are left want to stay. Just…check on their conditions, if you can.” He paused. “And Shianni wants you to look in on the alienage there.”

Sophia nodded. “That shouldn’t be a problem. The local _hahren_ wants me to deliver a proposal anyway. Anything else?”

“Come back alive. That one’s from me.”

Her face softened. “Of course I will. You know me—harder to kill than an Archdemon.” She walked over to him, hesitated, and then extended her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks! Well, for now, anyway. (I know, this one ends abruptly; I rescued it from my drafts folder, but if I ever intended there to be more to this scene, I don't remember what it was.) Again, I think this is a neat little 'verse and I may poke around more in it over time.
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> From the original draft: I want to write more about Lorraine Hawke’s unfortunate marriage to Seamus Dumar, but I also want to write about Lorraine’s unfortunate political engagement to him in a world where he moves into her embarrassingly huge, ornate family mansion and proceeds to live on her couch, getting into internet flamewars over whether the Qun is an inherently violent and repressive religion, while she teaches herself how to manage a city-state and nobles and various oppressed classes without inciting a revolt
> 
> or, you know, a canon fic where Seamus isn’t just More Useless Anders?
> 
> (currently, I’m floundering with Lorraine’s characterization as well. I like the idea of a Machiavellian Hawke but find it unlikely; I don’t think I could pull it off, myself. so instead, Lorraine’s. idk. idealistic in that she can envision a better future, she has clear ideas of What That Looks Like. I think I’m going to make Amell the ruthless, Machiavellian one – maybe started out idealistic, but time in the Circle, Jowan, the Blight, Zevran, the mess with Howe and Loghain and the Landsmeet all just hit her really hard in the idealism. She’s had to claw her way to keeping the Warden-Commander post, and her arling, and she’s working on freeing Ferelden’s Circle. Having a mage, related to her, sitting in the Viscount’s seat, would be a huge help, especially if Lorraine could curb Meredith.)
> 
> Now, notes from present-me: Tumblr tells me this was written 5 years ago. Which, just. Wow.
> 
> You can probably guess the worldstate (Dark Ritual happened with Loghain, Amell asked for the Circle to be freed, btw Shianni is the Bann of Denerim). At this point, Hawke hasn't done the Legacy sidequest (I usually place it after Leandra's death, and then I headcanon that the Orlesian one comes sometime between Acts 2 and 3). Speaking of that death, one of the things this fic was meant to fix was...that. Everything about that.
> 
> I think I was going for no-romance!Amell, but that's up in the air for now (she won't be a piece on the side, though, so Alistair romance is right out); regardless, Amell _maxed out_ everyone's friendship. She is the Most Beloved Warden, despite being up to her chin in political machinations at any given time. 
> 
> (Originally, Lorraine was gonna be Machiavellian, but I just. I love well-meaning!Hawke too much. So now Sophia is the Machiavellian one. Her companions love her, and she wants the world to be a better place, but...well, she's willing to be ruthless and cunning to get it there.)


End file.
